


in dreams until my death, I will wander on

by CynicallySmitten



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, And I'm still declaring it trash, Daryl Dixon is Gay, Episode: s09e9 Adaptation, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paul Rovia Deserves Everything, Probably the only s9 compliant fiction I will ever write, Things You Should Already Know, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-01-15 09:25:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18496072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynicallySmitten/pseuds/CynicallySmitten
Summary: Sometimes, Daryl wakes with the stone in his pocket; other times, his pockets are empty and his life even emptier.





	1. in a room full of emptiness

**Author's Note:**

> Internalized homophobia and general talk of character death throughout this fic. You have been warned.

Daryl feels the hard bristles of straw poking into his back but hardly notices. He and Dog found a blanket used for horses that makes things a little more comfortable. Nothin' to complain about, not bein' up here in the loft anyway. Daryl strokes absently at Dog's head, which had come to rest on his thigh maybe an hour ago - whenever it was that he'd started starin' at the roof of the barn rather than catching his usual fragments of sleep. 

Paul was dead. 

That shouldn't be his only thought right now. Ain't useful, being angry like he was in the cellar with that girl. Anger won't fix what's happened, anger won't bring him back. Anger ain't even what he would want for Daryl. But anger's always been the first place he runs to and he's still so damn angry he can feel it, a sourness scraping against the back of his teeth. 

He remembers losing Rick, the hollowness in his chest. The need to be gone and away - to disappear from world. His death is an open wound that's done nothing but fester for years. He sees it, sees it in everything. His brother is gone and that pain gets carried around his neck every day. Maybe one day, when he finds him out there, his body wasted away to nothin', he'll believe he's really gone. He'll leave that behind him, like he's left so many people he was never meant to outlive. 

No, this is different. 

Paul was _different._

Daryl's not sure when Jesus became Paul. Stupid nickname, he'd always thought and used it only when necessary. It seemed even stupider when he slipped, called him _Paul_ to his face and Daryl saw his gaze go all curious and bright. That was Paul. Or maybe it was a different Paul, his long hair tied up into a bun, his face curved into a mischievous smile as he sits at the edge of Daryl's camp and spouts praise over whatever books he's brought along this trip. Maybe it was earlier, Paul looking at him with those wide, too-understanding eyes as he asks if Daryl wants to shower before seeing anyone else. 

Or maybe it was that last time he'd seen Paul, over a year ago, a cautious look of hope on his face as he sat next to Daryl. Didn't care that most of his answers came in dry replies or that at Daryl was as unclean as he'd ever been, didn't care that Daryl hadn't done anything like that – not with, not with anyone. Paul just sat close, running on about things Daryl can't even remember, until things gets quiet and he leans close. 

Too close, not close enough, close enough to touch, close enough to hear an intake of breath – Paul's or his own, fuck if he knows - as he gets closer. 

Daryl remembers vividly the moment that he broke away. He pulled back, staring hard at the trees around them. He pretended like he couldn't see Paul re-settle himself, a mask of indifference out of the corner of his eye. Pretended like the heat in his body was from the fire. Pretended like he had no idea what was about to happen. 

He knew. Of course he knew but hell if he wasn't half the asshole he should've been. Too fuckin' cowardly. Too full of whatever shit he'd been born into, the shit that told him that _that_ wasn't him. Too broken to let anyone get close. Too screwed in the head to be good for anyone. Too trapped in his own bullshit to be good enough for Paul.

Didn't matter now. 

He was fuckin' gone, wasn't he? 

He's in a casket buried six feet under, rotting away into _nothing._

Daryl closes his eyes and buries his fingers into the fur at Dog's neck. He feels gentle licks at his fingertips and breathes in. 

“Good dog,” he mumbles as the first tendrils of sleep drag him under. 

-x- 

Without opening his eyes, Daryl knows immediately that something is different. 

The irritating stab of hay in his back is gone, replaced by something soft. There's also the smell – the unmistakeable smell of barn is gone, replaced by something flowery and artificial. Wherever he is now, it ain't where he went to sleep. 

Daryl sits up and freezes.

He's in an apartment. He's sitting on a couch in an apartment nicer than he's ever seen, much less slept in. It's night but he probably wouldn't know it without the window facing outward into the street. Daryl gets up and walks toward it cautiously. He can hear car engines as traffic – _fucking traffic_ – passes him by and the street is lit up like a damn Christmas tree outside. No sign of walkers. No blood or rundown buildings. No sign of apocalypse at all. 

“What the fuck.” 

Daryl's confusion is cut short by the sound of keys rattling on the outside of the door. Daryl braces himself, automatically reaches for his knife before realizing for the first time that he's not wearing the clothes he fell asleep in. In just a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants, he's got nothing to defend himself with.

The door opens and Daryl feels breath stutter to a halt. 

_Paul._

This Paul is entirely different from the corpse he buried just earlier today. Unlike the bloodless face he'd seen after Paul had been stabbed, unlike the lifeless body he'd held in his arms at Hilltop...this Paul is very much alive. His perfect face and bright eyes leave Daryl shaken with the thought that _he was never supposed to see him again._

This ain't real. 

It can't be. 

Paul grins at Daryl, his long hair swinging as he adjusts the brown paper bag in his hand to pull out his keys and shut the door. 

“You fell asleep on the couch, didn't you?” 

Daryl blinks . “Uh, what?” 

“Uh-huh,” Paul says, making his way into the adjacent kitchen. He puts the bag he was holding down on the counter and briefly smirks up at him. “That clueless look only works when I haven't caught you a hundred times before.” 

“I'm not-”

Still smiling, Paul waves him off and starts putting things from the bag up into cupboards. With his back turned, Daryl reluctantly closes his mouth. The apartment feels smaller with Paul moving around the kitchen; small but lived in, like Paul _belongs_ there. 

He notices details he hadn't before. Several picture frames hang on the walls: one of the two of them in front of a cabin the woods, another of them next to a restaurant, this version of himself giving the camera the bird. There are little things that Daryl doesn't recognize, knickknacks on the table behind the sofa, books overflowing on the bookshelf to pile in front of it, but also things he does. The fletching from one of his bolts, his boots laying haphazardly by the front door, his jacket hanging from the coat rack on the wall, wings still in tact on the vest that hangs beside it. 

This place ain't just his, it's theirs. 

“I know I'm a little late but I actually have a good excuse. You know how Glenn and Maggie have been trying to find a new babysitter for Hershel? Well, I was talking to Michonne about it and it turns out that Enid, Carl's girlfriend, has been looking for a little extra money. Apparently she's really good with Judith, so I gave them a call. Rick wasn't too excited about it because he doesn't want to leave his teenage son alone with his girlfriend-”

Fuck, that hurts, burns in his chest like he's swallowed hot coals and they're just now burning their way to his core. _Glenn_ and _Carl_ and _Rick_ , long gone from this earth but flowing so casually out of Paul's mouth. Like it wasn't anything, like that's just the world that was. There are a thousand questions Daryl could ask to explain what's happened but all that comes out is, _“Rick?”_

“Yeah, big surprise. I don't think it's the girlfriend thing so much as the would-rather-watch-paint-dry-than-see-another-art-exhibit thing.” Paul looks over his shoulder and gives Daryl a pointed look. “ You two have that in common.”

Art exhibit. He's worried about a damn _art exhibit._

The idea is so surreal, it sends a wave of nausea over him.

“Anyway, good news is that Tara, Rosita, and Sasha can drive up with Glenn and Maggie and Rick and Michonne can meet us at the gallery. Then, we can all walk to dinner after.”

Paul finishes emptying the bag of groceries and closes the last cupboard door, flattening the bag onto the counter before taking in Daryl's face. He looks down at the floor and tucks his hair behind one ear. Paul blinks up at Daryl from beneath full lashes, his turquoise eyes only complimented by his wry smile. 

“I'm just saying. It'll be nice to have everyone together again, right?” 

Daryl struggles to form a response, his tongue heavy and throat dry. 

“Yeah,” he croaks after a moment, “s'nice.”

Paul's expression changes, his eyebrows pulling together and his lips pressed together in thought. He steps out of the kitchen toward Daryl. Before he is able to think, Paul is in front of him, reaching out towards him. This Paul has no hesitation in entering his space, takes no thought in the way their thighs brush together and his arm ghosts over Daryl's waist. It's all Daryl can do not to shudder as a hand cups his neck. 

That shudder overtakes him when Paul presses his mouth against Daryl's. Daryl had imagined that kiss too many times to count, too many thoughts he'd pushed away into the parts of his mind he never wanted to explore. This is not what he imagined. Where he'd thought desperation would pull into fevered embrace, this kiss is slow and familiar; where he though he'd be clumsy and overwhelmed, he feels himself sinking into every touch, mirroring it and unable to resist chasing Paul's mouth when he pulls away. Paul kisses him like he's savoring it, like he's saying _hello_ and _I missed you_ all at once. He kisses like they have all the time in the world and, for all he knows, they do.

They break away eventually and Daryl keeps his eyes closed. He clings to Paul for several long moments, feels Paul's forehead press against his own and he wants to sob with relief. Maybe this is a dream, maybe this is a fucking nightmare and he'll see Paul's dead body again, lifeless in the middle of a graveyard – _he's seen everyone in his nightmares, Merle, Hershel, Beth, Denise, Glenn, Abraham, Sasha, Rick, too many faces, too much blood, and he tries to scrape the images from his eyes but, in his dreams, they run wild_ – but this is here and now. Paul is alive now, warm and safe and in his arms. 

_So fucking alive_ , Daryl thinks, blinking his eyes open. He's struck mute by the way Paul's eyes stare questioningly into his own. _So goddamn beautiful._

“You alright?” Paul asks, stroking the skin beneath his fingers. “You seem quiet tonight.”

Daryl shakes his head. 

He feels light-headed, like he's taken somethin' and the high has only just set in. Every muscle in his body is loose and his eyelids are feeling heavier and heavier, even as he tries to blink them open. Paul smiles like he can see right through him. With Daryl leaning into him – Paul holding Daryl up with little effort – he probably can. Daryl buries his head in Paul's shoulder, runs a hand along his back and tries not to tremble when he finds the spot that is still whole and untouched. 

“You should go to bed -- our actual bed, not the couch this time,” Paul teases.

Daryl pulls back to glare at Paul even though every inch of him wants to stay exactly where he is. “Nah, don' need ta.”

“Daryl, you're practically asleep on your feet.”

Paul's face as he laughs at him leaves his chest feeling tight. He wants this to be real, wants to keep Paul here with him as long as he can. He wants to hear more about Carl and Rick, wants to see Paul's smile as he talks about art exhibits, even though it sounds boring as shit. He'd gladly spend hours talking about art if it means not waking up to a world so Goddamn _empty._

If only he could keep his eyes open. 

“M'fine,” Daryl mumbles and feels like a kid as he represses a yawn. He rubs his eyes with one hand, pressing hard enough to see flashes of light at the back of his eyelids. He opens his to see Paul raising an eyebrow at him. “Yer here.” 

“And I'll be right behind you,” Paul says quietly, looking fond but exasperated. He pushes at Daryl's shoulder, turning him around and pointing towards a dimly lit hallway where he can see the frame of an open door. “Go. I'll be in a couple minutes.”

Daryl moves forward without thinking. He walks through the open door and into a darkened room, reaching blindly for a switch on the wall. He finds it and hears a click as bright light flips on from the ceiling fan. The room is small, much like the rest of the apartment, but the bed looks comfortable, more comfortable than anything he's slept in the past few years.

There are two bedside tables that read distinctly as belonging to each of them. The left is Paul's, two books stacked crookedly next to a hairbrush and pieces of scratch paper with a few dates written on it and a crudely drawn stick figure kicking out at them. On the right is Daryl's, bare except for a lighter, his cigarettes, an old fashioned radio alarm clock, and a small greenish blue pebble. 

Daryl finds himself huddled tight under the covers, staring at that rock until his eyes slide shut. 

His eyes don't open again, not even when he hears the sounds of movement in the kitchen grow quiet and the door to the bedroom creaks open. By the time the other side of bed dips, Daryl can feel the sharp prick of hay through his shirt. He hears Dog let out a soft bark. When he opens his eyes again, he's back in the barn. 

Paul is dead. There's still a girl in that cellar that needs talkin' to. Dog looks anxious as he stares at the stairs leading down from the loft.

There's work to do. 

Daryl picks himself up and shakes away any dreams of people long gone and kisses that he'll never have.

He'll move forward. That's what he does, after all. Just keeps moving forward.


	2. by a freeway, I confess I was lost in the pages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Don't make me see this,_ Daryl thinks. _Please._

She's just a girl. 

Should be easy enough to tell himself that, to let her talk about the worst of what's happened to her and know it's 'cause she's in pain. It ain't easy. Daryl wants to be angry, wants to throw the stool he's sittin' on to the side and ask if she thinks that makes up for everything. He wants to tell her that every single one of 'em in this town came from somethin'. Wants to tell her the marks on her arms ain't special, that everyone's got scars now. 

He doesn't.

She is just a girl. She is in pain. She's had her share of the worst a parent can give you just like he has. Just like him, he can see her baying at the windows to run away from this place. Just like him, she has no where else to go. 

_No idea how to go back to anything but what you know,_ he thinks, and stops her as tears fall from her cheeks to the cell floor.

“It's okay,” Daryl rasps. “We've heard enough.' 

“I'm sorry I couldn't help you. I'm sorry I wasted your time.” 

Daryl unfolds his arms and looks down at her. Her dark, glassy eyes, her small shaking body curled against the bars. He knows then that he's going to make sure she's safe. He can't blame Lydia for Paul's death, no matter what this world looks like without him.

“You didn't.”

 _It's what he would do,_ Tara's voice echoes in his mind. 

 

–x-

 

Daryl doesn't sleep that night or the next. 

Instead, he spends his days running from a bunch of psychopaths in skin suits. 

To his surprise, Connie - one of the girls from the new group - comes with him. Though it's nice to have another goddamn adult around, Daryl almost wants to send her back. He wants to tell her not to get herself wrapped up in this. He can't witness another death, another recklessly brave person giving their life for the greater good. He ain't got a right to tell her no, though; instead, he feels himself watching all three of them out of the corners of his eyes.

 _Maybe just one time,_ Daryl tells himself, he'll be fast enough to do something. 

The three of them surprise the hell out of him. They hold their own while Daryl faces off against Beta, who is probably the biggest asshole Daryl has ever been in a fight with. He struggles as Beta tosses him across the room, waits for his opportunity to send him hurtling down the elevator shaft, hoping it does what a knife to his chest couldn't. 

They handle themselves pretty well, save for Henry and his slashed knee. 

Alexandria opens its doors to them reluctantly. It's only Michonne's confidence in him that lets them enter. Daryl can see Aaron watching Lydia, fear and distrust in his eyes. On one wobbly teenage leg, Henry stands up for her to claim her as one of their own. Lydia is safe here, at least for the moment. 

Daryl rubs at his eyes. He feels himself slowly growing blurred at the edges. He's gone on with less sleep than this, held himself up with more aches and pains and fatigue. Still, he wonders if he's ever felt more tired. He's not sure how long he stands, leaning against the porch rail, until he feels a hand on his shoulder. 

Connie blinks up at him, her smile kind and understanding. She's clearly done talking with Michonne, her bag slung over her shoulder and her head held high. She holds up her notepad, words written out in loopy handwriting: _You need sleep._

“Nah,” Daryl denies, shaking his head for good measure. 

He can't sleep now. He needs to figure out his plans. He needs to make sure Lydia's ready, make sure Henry's ready for the journey to the Kingdom. Too much to sleep on. 

He doesn't want to sleep, not after that last dream. It was too damn real, too damn good. 

Rather have the nightmares, he thinks.

Connie gives him one last, imploring look before sighing. She purses her lips and throws her hands up, a clear sign of defeat. Daryl doesn't smile but it's a near thing. Connie scribbles out a quick note, looking determined. She passes it to him and he takes it but rushes off before he can even glance at it.

_I'm going to find Lydia and Henry. Go find somewhere to rest for a while._

By the time Daryl has finished reading, she is long out of sight. 

 

–x-

 

Daryl winds up on Aaron's couch, a cup of something warm in his hands as Aaron gives him a small stilted smile. He can see the grief shadowed behind Aaron's gestures, the ring of exhaustion around his eyes. _I know you're goin' through this again,_ Daryl wants to say. _I'm sorry,_ he could say. _You have no idea how sorry I am,_ burns at the back of his mouth. 

Instead, Daryl takes a mouthful of the liquid in his cup – broth, he realizes - and hunger hits as he tilts the cup back to drink it all. He lowers it, swallows as he sets the cup down on the coffee table between them. 

Aaron's smile is genuine now, something warm and pleased. 

The night Aaron first invited him inside was as far as he'd felt from anyone, including his family, up to that moment. Of course, he'd made like he was hunting, doing what he knew how; more like he was wandering around like a fucking stray, too damn mangy and flea-bitten to ever belong in this new home. But then there they were, he, Aaron and Eric, sitting around the kitchen table eating spaghetti like it wasn't nothin' for him to be there. Like he had a reason to be there. 

Daryl wasn't sure he'd ever really feel comfortable here, not in the suburbs, not with the neighborhood cell rattling dangerously below. But this house, Aaron, the memory of Eric, still felt welcoming. Still felt a little more like home. 

Daryl lowers his eyes.

“I know you ain't happy we're here.” 

“I'm happy you're here, Daryl,” Aaron says, visibly injured by the idea. “You know I want you here. That's not – it's not the issue-” 

Daryl cuts him off, shaking his head as hair falls messily into his eyes. “It don't matter. I know ya blame her for Pa-Jesus' death. I know you ain't seein' this from her point of view. Ya don't have to, man. The things tha' happened to her don't-they don' make it right. She's just...she needs help. I can't stand aside and do nothin' and I don't think...He wouldn'a...”

The words, they don't come out right. It feels wrong to speak like that, _he woulda protected her, he woulda fought for her, he never woulda wanted this for us._ He thinks of Judith out on the bridge, asking what Rick would do, and winces. They're gone; it ain't about what they want or what they'd do if they were here. 

Aaron sighs and rubs at the bottom of his arm where his prosthetic would normally be. His hand is long gone but Daryl knows – knew from his brother, from Hershel – that, sometimes, he feels it there. He wonders, if it were still there, whether it'd be clenched into a fist. 

“She not...she's not the reason he died. I can see that. Jesus did that. He chose that.”

“Ain't that simple,” Daryl says as his eyes start to droop. He can feel his limbs starting to loosen, his eyelids struggling not to close. God, he doesn't want to sleep, doesn't wanna let himself drift off. Not now. Not with Aaron staring at him, his blue eyes pinched with worry.

“He knew the risks; he went out anyway.”

Daryl closes his eyes. He wants to stay awake but feels himself sinking inch by inch back into the couch. His breath's goin' slow and even but he has to say it, needs to make Aaron hear it. “People like us, we just ain't made to sit back and do nothin', man. Paul, he knew the risks, he jus'...he chose to keep doin' what he though' was right.” 

The last thing he says before sleep takes him in its grip comes out in a quiet rasp, “He chose us over the risks.” 

–x-

“Dude, Daryl, you're drooling.” Daryl feels a gentle push at his shoulders, then a firm shake just a moment later. “Daryl. C'mon, man, wake up!” 

Daryl's eyes snap open, gasping as he clenches his hands in the fabric of his pants. He sitting, leaned back in the same damn position he was on Aaron's couch. Now, though, he's most definitely not in Aaron's living room. He's not even in his and Paul's apartment. 

Instead, he's in a huge room – _some kinda gym,_ he thinks, by the bleachers he can now feel indenting into his legs - with padded floors and large foam poles sticking up from the floor on either side. It's mostly kids running around, dressed in martial arts uniforms and doing some form of soft combat, but he can see a few adults overlooking them, some in black and white striped shirts. He spots Paul instantly among them, looking every inch the instructor with his ninja topknot and sharp observant eyes flicking back and forth between the pairs. 

Daryl's breath catches, still feeling like he's been doused with cold water. He closes his eyes and unclenches his fingers. For a moment, all he can hear is the quiet slap of feet striking mats. It's nice, feels a little less like he's losing his goddamned mind. 

Another nudge at his shoulders, this time Daryl can sense it's from behind. 

When he turns around to look behind him, Daryl feels his heart seize in his chest. 

_Glenn._ His smile is almost infectious, friendly and familiar as he looks down at Daryl. There's a moment where Daryl feels tears burn hot at the back of his eyes, has to swallow around the lump in his throat to smile back. 

_Fuck. I can't._

_Don't make me see this,_ Daryl thinks. _Please._

Glenn's humor stays as his dark eyes squint with laughter. It's hard not to stare at him, harder not to break down and try anything to wake himself up. This can't...it can't be fuckin' real. He can't do this, he can't go back from this, it's just bullshit his mind keeps setting just to...just to wake up again.

“Sorry for waking you. You were drooling and not in the weird _staring-at-Jesus_ sort of way.”

“M'sorry,” is all Daryl can get out before his jaw clenches shut. 

There are a thousand words at the front of his mind but none of them would make any sense. Not to this Glenn. He's not the Glenn of Daryl's world, not the figment of his nightmares. No blood running down his face, eyes planted solidly in his skull, no screamin' and cryin' as the sounds of impact turn grow more and more grotesque. 

This Glenn gives him a crooked smile beneath his baseball cap. 

“Yeah, no, I'm not offended, man. I know this is my kid's thing but I'd probably start nodding off too considering the tournament hasn't even _started.”_

_His kid._

Daryl grits his teeth, turns the start of a sob into a laugh. “So, wha's stoppin' you?” 

“Mostly Maggie,” Glenn says matter of factly. He shrugs, adjusting his cap as he leans down to speak low enough for only Daryl to hear. “And I'm on picture duty, so I've got to keep my eyes open for anything and everything that will embarrass him in ten years.”

Daryl tries not to think about the last time he'd even seen Hershel. Was it two, maybe three years ago? Had to be back when he was still making more and more trips to Hilltop, back when Maggie and Paul were still running things tight. Back when the kid started looking so much like Glenn, it would hurt just to watch him smile. Now, though, he scans the faces of children and adults and a rush of fondness swirls through him as he finds Maggie and, a few feet away, Hershel.

Hershel is older, maybe seven or eight now, much older than he should be, and furrowing his brow as he kicks out, trying to hold some hard-to-balance pose. It takes a second glance to catch Paul watching him too and attempting not to smile. Paul comes up behind Hershel and whispers into his ear. In an instant, his twisted up face breaks into a smile – like Glenn, just like Glenn, and even knowing Glenn is behind him, still makes his throat clench painfully – and he breaks the pose. 

Paul steps back from behind Hershel and, as though aware of Daryl watching the whole time, looks up at him and winks. 

Daryl ducks his head and bites at his thumbnail. _Asshole._

“Did you get any sleep at all last night?” Glenn asks from behind and Daryl looks over his shoulder to see Glenn staring at him. 

Daryl makes a non-committal noise.

“Jesus said you looked like a zombie all week, like you hadn't slept at all.” 

Daryl scowled. “I looked like a _what?”_

Glenn lets out a laugh, holding his hands up. “Yeah, dude, I know but he's concerned, okay?” 

Daryl keeps his eyes on his shoes. 

_I'm fine,_ he wants to say. _I'm surviving. Ain't like you, I ain't gone yet. I can't...I don't get this. I don't deserve this. I just gotta keep going._ Daryl wants to say it but it feels trapped in his throat. He ain't gonna ruin this. Not this. If he only gets five fucking minutes of peace, he's gonna spend 'em dreaming about a world like this.

“Got a lot on my mind, s'all.” 

“Anything I could do to help?” Glenn offered.

Daryl glanced back at Glenn and slowly shook his head. “Just glad to be awake, man.”

The other man gave his shoulder a friendly pat and Daryl wondered if now would be the time he'd start dozing off again before a loud voice from below called out for everyone's attention. The tournament had started, the floor separating into six separate squares with kids lined around the squares, itching to get started. Hershel goes to stand by Maggie, who glows and gives him a squeeze around the shoulders while Paul seems to inspect every line of kids carefully before nodding at each of the refs. 

Paul taught a kid's class at Hilltop. Daryl knows that, had seen Paul with the kids years and years ago teaching them self defense. There, it was survival but still...it was _Paul,_ so he could see the kids laughing, keeping their confidence even as they failed and Paul encouraged them on. It was the same here. The kids started, a rotation of pairs in different colored protective gear, throwing themselves into spins and kicks Daryl had rarely seen from adults his age. Some were more coordinated, others...well, they 'least they tried. Still, Paul seemed to be everywhere he needed to, calm and supportive, driving them forward with that ghost of a smile he'd always carry around when he was teachin' shit to the kids.

 _Guess some things don't change,_ Daryl thinks. 

When it's Hershel's turn to spar with one of the other kids, Paul is quicker to appear than Daryl's ever seen him. Paul doesn't lean down to give advise or touch his shoulder; instead, he just looks over Hershel's shoulder and nods. Hershel takes a breath and steps forward.

Glenn whoops from behind and, out of the corner of his eye, Daryl sees a camera raise and turns away. He sneaks a glance at Glenn and is not at all surprised to see him grinning like a madman. “Gotta embarrass him somehow, right?”

Daryl snorts. 

Hershel suffers through a few more whoops and whistles but ends up winning his fight. Daryl can see the small thumbs up thrown to the man behind him and Glenn mirrors the gesture. He smiles down at Daryl, who can't help but smile back. 

_“That's my kid.”_

Five minutes turns to forty and the rest of the tournament passes in a daze. 

Daryl knows he should try to shake himself awake. The more he sees, the more the wants to stay, 's just worse when he does wake up. Daryl can't make himself though, just sits back and watches as the kids start to disperse. Glenn nudges him as he walks past him, down the bleachers and onto the gym floor where Maggie and Hershel are waiting. 

It's everything they were 'sposed to be. Maggie looking down at Hershel as Glenn wraps an enthusiastic arm around his shoulders. For a moment, Daryl debates about joining them. He's beaten to the punch by Paul, who comes up from behind with a small proud smile.

They look every inch the family they should have been. 

Something acrid burns in Daryl's throat. 

Not a moment later, his eyes close and he can feel another hand on his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my trend of writing too long chapters because I ramble too much? It keeps going. 
> 
> But at least I have this story mapped out now, so that's something. 
> 
> I appreciate all the terrific feedback from you guys. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> So, I promise, I haven't abandoned The Chaos of Color? But this thing hit me like a freight train and I'm trying to write short, concise chapters where plot isn't so much of a thing like it is in my other fic. Honestly, I'm just winging it.
> 
> \- Amy


End file.
